


meet me in the middle or maybe somewhere else

by nadia5803



Series: liaisons by nadia [9]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:40:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26706880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadia5803/pseuds/nadia5803
Summary: i hope they hold hands and kiss
Series: liaisons by nadia [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1631752
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

It was Friday afternoon, and Laszlo had only one thing on his mind after the day of repetitive meetings. Some good old-fashioned research at the library. Of course, the Polish capital’s government center was fitted with a nice little media center — the Bartoszewski Center for Literature, in English, but with a long Polish buzzword written on the top. Luckily, most of it was on a single floor, and one elevator was fitted for the second level of the media center. What better way to unwind than browsing the shelves without a care in the world? Laszlo only wished he was wearing more comfortable clothes. Meh, the trip back to his dorm wasn’t quite worth it. A suit would do! 

The library was clean and simple, a corporate office park of a library. The shelves were aligned in assembly rows and there were no librarians tittering about, just shelves and a few stray tables with empty chairs. Laszlo took it as an opportunity to take his time, and began on the history section. How fitting. He hummed as he ran the fingers over all the spines, varying in depth and height and texture. He wasn’t exactly certain of what he was searching for, either. Maybe just a particular topic would catch his eye or an author he knew. Scanning the shelves and peeking above the European History section, his eyes found another person’s backside, hidden in the next shelf of books. With resignation, he grabbed a copy of some loose book about Yugoslavia, placed it on his lap and turned around the corner.

Florijan Kovac was reading a book. Laszlo grinned, drumming his fingers on the cover of his book, waiting for Florijan to notice him. The Slovenian did not look up. The Macedonian took this as his cue.

“Florijan! Fancy seeing you here.”

Florijan jumped and swiveled to look at Laszlo, his face an event of red as he slammed his book shut. “President Mincef!”

“Laszlo, please,” he smiled and held the book to his chest, trying to disarm Florijan with some rather uncharacteristic friendliness. “How’s your day been, dear? This must be your first session. Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be accustomed to the craziness of it soon enough.” Laszlo waved a dismissive hand, keeping a joyful look on his face. 

“Thanks, um, Laszlo. Are you sure— erm — that’s okay if I call you that? I feel a little bit bad. That’s a little informal,” Florijan blinked, tightening his hold on the volume. “Izet used to go bananas when someone did that to him. It was always President Kovac with him, Mr. Kovac.”

Laszlo rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I remember. He was a bit of an odd one out. See, most of us are okay with a first-name familiarity system, besides the sworn enemies and such. Or the uppity ones.” He scratched his chin and raised his eyebrows. “Oh! Well, if you feel more comfortable referring to me as President Mincef, Mr. Mincef, whatever, certainly fine. I don’t really care.” Laszlo shrugged and smiled coolly at the newcomer. 

Florijan nodded, eyes wide as he took down this information like a panicked student taking notes from a professor. “Thank you, Laszlo.”

Finger guns. “No problem, Florijan. See? Easy. Most people won’t get a fit over it. ‘Sides your cousin, of course.”

The Slovene shuffled his feet and nodded, answering with a little smile.

“Your day went well?” Laszlo asked, hoping the conversation wouldn’t lose steam.

“It’s awful nerve-wracking,” Florijan replied, bobbing his head up and down. “Things are much more simpler when it’s domestic issues in a small country. You must feel the same way.”

Absolutely not. “Of course.”

“But I’m trying to get a better hang of foreign policy and things. It’s, uh, very interesting! I hadn’t realized how much importance is placed on it now. And, uh, does Prime Minister Hunter usually act—“

“Yes, yes he does. He’s like that with all of us. Condescending, right?” 

“Yeah! Yeah. God, I wish Izet would have explained things to me more. This is all rapid-fire. It’s scary.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Laszlo offered with another relaxed smile. “Eventually, it’s a matter of reflex. Just educate yourself and build up policy over time. What are you reading, by the way?”

Florijan held it up with a soft, ready smile. “Italian cooking!”

“For Lorenzo?”

“Myself,” Florijan said with an unbothered grin, his eyes gleaming as he looked over the book. “I’ve always been the baker of my family. But I would like to extend more into cooking. Izet always loved my pastries! And his cabinet, too.” His smile went a little sad, but he straightened his posture and tucked the book beneath his shoulder. “Have we ever had potlucks?”

“You can call that G20.”

“Oh, G20,” Florijan said with a nod.

“I’m not invited to those glorified potlucks, though,” Laszlo snapped his fingers and sighed. “So, I don’t know. It might be a little lame without the great country of North Macedonia coming to stir up some trouble. That’s what’s so great about these.”

“Oh, Laszlo, you’re no troublemaker!” Florijan laughed at that. He had a cute little laugh. “You’re so gentle. And kind. I don’t know why anyone would think you’re some troublemaker!”

Gentle and kind. Nice adjectives, but not ones for Laszlo’s political side, he thinks. “It would be fun if I could go to things like that. Eh, they don’t really want me there.”

Florijan’s pleasant laughter subsided. “Why not?”

Laszlo’s face betrayed a look of genial caution. “You’ll figure it out later.”

“Oh... alright,” Florijan clammed up, putting his hands behind his back. “Well, thank you, Laszlo. It was nice talking with you. Thanks for your kind words.”

“No problem, dear.” Finger guns again.

Florijan held out a single hand, a prompt.

Laszlo stared at it for a moment, dumbfounded. “I-I like your nails. Green,” he stammered, before realizing. “OH! Of course!” Laszlo nudged himself closer, taking Florjan’s hand and giving it a firm shake. He sized out the Slovene’s handshake, and nodded. Izet was definitely not the one to teach him a proper handshake. What a limp noodle he had been. “Strong handshake. They’ll like that in you,” Laszlo commented with more nodding. “It’s a good strength to have. You know, your cousin— geez. That man couldn’t hold a handshake for his life, even before he got sick! And, and, he used to do that annoying thing, where you scratch the inside of someone’s palm! It was the most infuriating thing!” He laughed at the memory and covered his mouth, letting his face slip back into indifferent compassion. “Ah, shit. Anyways, you’re a natural. You’ll be fine here. You fit in already.”

For a moment, Florijan’s smile faded, before snapping back into place as he nodded back, grinning as best he could and providing a warm thanks. And that’s when Laszlo felt that familiar pit in his chest.

Laszlo didn’t like seeing anybody sad— who does? — and he didn’t take pleasure in sadness. Despite being a dour person with a penchant for indifference and insensitivity, Laszlo was not one to delight in people’s sadness, nor was he one to invoke such a feeling. But it was something about Florijan Kovac’s tight shoulders and downcast brown eyes that got to him the most. He had always been a light in those limited interactions Laszlo had with the Slovenian government, making banter with Izet and bringing his guests cups of tea. Even when his cousin would trade in misery and corruption, always teetering on that cliff of authoritarianism, Florijan maintained a sense of infallible positivity and warmth. 

Despite what everybody else felt about Izet Kovac, the whispers and the unapologetic words and subdued glee by the so-called mourners, Florijan was also infallible in his way of grieving. He was untouched by those cold words and the empty chair his cousin left for him, unprepared and inexperienced, and chose to mourn the person he knew, not the person everybody else saw.

Laszlo knew deep down that Florijan had to be aware of the true Izet. The corruption and cruelty hidden behind sly smiles and dainty cynicism. There was a reason that Izet’s short dance with terminal illness was replaced with the tango of politically charged assassination. There was a reason Izet Kovac died from a snapped neck in his office, a pen still in his hand, and not surrounded by his family in an angelic hospital room. President Kovac had not deserved an angelic death. He did not deserve to go out in peace and in happiness, knowing that his shy and infallible cousin was prepared to inherit a country. Izet Kovac deserved to die unaware of his legacy and in absolute dread.

But it was something about Florijan’s lingering grief that created that pit in Laszlo’s stomach. He hated seeing those small gestures, those sad looks and half-hearted smiles and sagging shoulders. But he also despised the fact that Florijan would let himself mourn so sincerely such a horrible man. It left a bitter taste in his mouth and a nauseating feeling throughout. It  _ got _ to him. Truly, it got to him. Nothing ever got to Laszlo Mincef, not the hatred of his cabinet nor the world’s abandonment of his country, but watching Florijan Kovac mourn in those quiet, simplistic ways, it just ate at him.

Laszlo’s mouth was suddenly dry, and he shook his head, trying to steady himself. “How about you take a walk with me?”

Florijan perked up, eyes sparkling. “I would love to!”

***

Laszlo had placed the books in his messenger bag, charmingly draped across one of his wheelchair’s handles. Florijan was a polite, understanding man. He didn’t force himself upon Laszlo, and waited until he got complete confirmation before Laszlo allowed him to push his chair. Laszlo was happy with Florijan and Florijan was happy with Laszlo, happy that such a cool and friendly guy would graciously offer him a walk through the government center.

“If you have any questions, you know, don’t be afraid to shoot,” Laszlo offered.

“What’s Gustava’s deal?”

“Oh,” Laszlo snorted, covering his face as he giggled. “Oh, Gustava’s a nice lady. She’s a little misled. But a nice lady once you get to know her. Or, if she wants something from you. Then she’s a  _ very  _ nice lady.”

Florijan seemed nonplussed. “I didn’t know so many of the people here were so… absurd. Izet was always so serious about how he presented himself, but it was like a circus back there. It was exhausting. How are you so calm?”

“Practice, dear. It’s all in the look. See?” Laszlo raised his eyebrows as he turned to face Florijan, then let his expression melt into his usual look of tranquil disinterest. “You just gotta look… exhausted… and intimidating…” 

Florijan mirrored Laszlo’s dour expression, wearing a pout and heavy eyelids. Laszlo snapped his fingers and nodded. “You’ve got it! Exhausted and intimidating, remember that.”

As the pair neared the dorms, Laszlo perked up at a familiar set of voices in the hall. Florijan stopped, too, flashing a concerned look. “Is that…?”

“ _ Arpad _ ,” Laszlo mouthed. “ _ And Fyodor _ .”

“I thought it was Fedy—“ 

“Don’t call him Fyodor, he’ll maul you, my bad. It’s Fedya,” Laszlo backtracked, nodding “I can take it from here. Why don’t you take these?” he said, plucking the bag from his chair and handing it to Florijan.

“Your book…?” 

“Hold onto it for now. Give it a good look, too, might be helpful to you. I’ll be right back. Oh, but not as a guidebook. Okay, see you!” Shifting into place, Laszlo started down the hallway, humming as he followed the growing volume of the voices. 

“You’re ruining everything, why can’t you just  _ follow directions _ ?” Arpad demanded, Fedya pinned to the wall beside him. Well, generously so, as he still towered over Arpad by nearly a whole foot. Fedya caught the movement in the hall first, and swiveled to stare blankly at Laszlo. 

Laszlo stared blankly back, studying his nails as he waited for Arpad’s attention to land on him. “You’re being unusually nasty today, Bornemisza,” he threw out. Arpad turned to him, an event of embarrassed red.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was going back to my room?” Laszlo said, cocking an eyebrow. “And you’re just here, verbally assaulting poor President Vranchev, for everyone and their mother to see. I could hear you two hallways over. You best quiet down before Ben and Gustava get involved. Keep it in the bedroom, if you will?”

Arpad grabbed Fedya’s wrist like a posh parent lugging around an unresponsive toddler who’s more interested in any other task. “Anything you’d like to say, asshole?” he spat to Fedya. Jesus, Laszlo thought, he is a fucking parent. 

“I, uh, I just thought— Hi, Mincef.” He offered a small

wave and Arpad fumed. Suddenly, out of thin air, Laszlo felt a presence behind him and turned to look at Florijan, holding the books and bag in his hand. Laszlo hadn’t even heard the footsteps.

“Hi, Kovac,” Fedya peeped.

“I just thought— it was taking a while,” Florijan stuttered, studying the two other men with bated suspicion. “President Valentine. President Vranchev,” he acknowledged.

“I didn’t know he could talk!” Arpad declared, tightening his grip on Fedya’s wrist and pulling him aside. “Now, if you two’ll excuse us, we have some  _ personal matters  _ to discuss and would appreciate a degree of privacy. Laszlo.”

Laszlo surrendered with a nod, and put his hand in Florijan’s. “Arpad. Have a good one, pal.”

“Have fun with Izet’s little minion,” Arpad snapped back, dragging Fedya down the hall and disappearing down a corner.

They stood in silence for a moment before Laszlo pulled his clammy hand away from Florijan’s, laughing to himself. “Wow, those two are a joy, aren’t they?”

Florijan looked confused, and his silent sadness had returned. “I’m not Izet’s minion, am I?” he asked.

Laszlo blinked, and began to lead himself from the hallway. Florijan followed suit. “No, no, you’re not. Arpad’s mean. He doesn’t know anything. Don’t get worked up over it.”

“They— they don’t view me bad, do they?” Florijan shuffled his feet. “I haven’t done anything wrong. At least, I hope I haven’t…”

“You have done nothing to earn anybody’s malice,” Laszlo reassured, facing Florijan as they reached the threshold back into the building’s vital organ. “You know more about politics than the two of them combined. Trust me, Florijan, you’re fine.” He shifted in his seat and looked out into the drab grayness of the building. “Besides, I’ll be here for you. If you need anything, just ask. Komnena, Jelka, Svetlana, hell, even Adriano and Agim? They’ll do the same for you. We’re a family. A very divided family, but a family with historical and cultural ties and a shared language and shared struggles. Don’t be afraid of a few fools. You have more friends than you know.” Laszlo turned back, providing a compassionate smile. “You’re not alone in this. If you ever need a hand, I’m here, we’re here. ‘Kay?”

“Okay,” Florijan replied, nodding, his cheeks turning pink. “Okay. Thank you, Laszlo, it means a lot. I’m very grateful for all the advice.”

“No problem, dear.”

Florijan tried to hand him his book. Laszlo waved his hand. “Keep it. Read it. It may help you out sometime.” 

“Okay.” Florijan smiled. The lines of his face still spelled sadness, anxiety, but Laszlo hoped his support had marred it just the slightest.

“Of course. Anytime.”

Florijan bent to Laszlo’s height, taking his hand and giving him two kisses on his cheeks. “ _ Dobro veçe _ , president!” he said, smiling as he disappeared back into the hallway, the two books tucked underneath his arm.

“ _ Veçe i tebi… _ ” Laszlo replied, turning to watch Florijan go. 

Florijan looked back and waved again.

Laszlo smiled and waved back.


	2. Chapter 2

“I read your book,” Florijan declared. “It gave me a nightmare.”

Laszlo spun around, eyes wide as his gaze met Florijan’s. “Hello to you too, dear. Why did it give you a nightmare?”

Florijan shrugged, plucking it from his coat pocket and handing it back to Laszlo. “It was scary. I think you should return it to the library.”

“Uh, alright.” Laszlo stared at the cover.  _ A Full History of Yugoslavia — Tito and Onwards _ . Debating, he shoved it in the bag tossed on his wheelchair, and started leading himself from the conference room. “Did it give you some context, at the very least? What made it... scary? I don’t think I understand.”

Florijan followed, his hands shoved in the pockets of his long gray jacket, ruined threads and tears running throughout it. “It gave me context... I don’t like the context. I don’t understand the brutality of it,” he said. “And I don’t like how we didn’t have a say in anything. And I didn’t like all the death and destruction and suffering. It didn’t have to be that way.”

“It, uh, it sure didn’t,” Laszlo muttered. He had begun to wonder if Slovenia’s newest president had even the faintest clue of the region’s own history. His face flushed an event of red, and he paused outside. “Let’s sit and talk. That works?”

Florijan nodded, his lips a thin line. “That certainly works, Laszlo.” 

Laszlo patted the bench beside him and leaned forward as Florijan sat. From the morbid expression on Florijan’s face and the scrunched eyebrows on his, he almost began to feel like a parent giving a child a hapless explanation for a death in the family. The death being whatever history of Yugoslavia Florijan had believed before. “You seem bothered.”

“Learning about history makes me sad. I don’t like it.”

“You’re a man with a lot of empathy. There’s nothing wrong about that,” Laszlo replied.

Florijan huffed, his gangly hands folded into a neat bundle. “I feel duped. I feel duped that there was all this stuff I didn’t know. And I just lived my life without realizing any of it. I knew about the war. I knew there was a lot of people killed in it and that ever since then we’ve been seven instead of one. But all of those photographs, and the articles, and, and, and, the brutality of all of it. And we weren’t even fighting by our own means,” he mused, his voice trembling as he spoke. “Oh, Laszlo, it’s very sad.” Laszlo looked up when he felt Florijan’s gaze transfixed on him. “I see what you meant now. When you said what a troublemaker you are. But, but, you’re not. You’re a very good man with a big heart. Just because Macedonia has a bad rap doesn’t mean you should.”

Laszlo’s mouth twitched into a small smile before he looked away. “We shouldn’t have a bad rap at all.”

“I know,” Florijan said, putting his hand on top of Laszlo’s. “I know now. Izet always made these jokes that I could never understand, these vile jokes about you and Miss Arsic and Miss Horvatic. It makes sense now, it does, but I should have thought, oh... I don’t understand.”

Laszlo shifted. His hand was an icebox beneath the warmth of Florijan’s. “What don’t you understand?”

“The book... well. I did research, and it says— it says Slovenia isn’t considered a Balkan country. And Izet mentioned that sometimes, but I never really understood it, I just thought it was a consistent error he liked to make. Is it true, Laszlo? I don’t want it to be true. I think you guys are great. And I don’t fit in with Lorenzo and Manon and Aurelia— I mean, they’re great, but I do feel like the odd one out. I can’t speak German or French and they can't speak a word of Slovene or even read Cyrillic. It’s... weird. I always thought it was the other way around.” Florijan’s voice went increasingly distraught, and Laszlo’s panic flared in his chest.

“Don’t get upset. It’s okay. Um, let me explain it to you this way. You guys, the Slovenians, drink wine and beer. Me, Jelka, Svetlana, Agim, we drink rakija. Uhhh... that’s how I’ve heard it explained.”

“I don’t drink, Laszlo, I hate drinking! It doesn’t make sense,” Florijan let out a whimper of frustration and inhaled. “I apologize. This is making me rather emotional. Can you just— hm. Explain it to me like you would anybody else, and I’ll try not to get upset.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s fine. Promise. Erm,” Laszlo felt the back of his neck and his eyes touched the ceiling. He squinted through the glass panelling at the fractured afternoon sun. “Okay. It’s like, a stereotype, really, that you guys are more poised. You’re better. Less boisterous. You don’t fight or argue or make mountains from molehills. You handle things like those posh westerners do.” Laszlo steadied his gaze, and chuckled to himself. “You’re seen as one of the good ones. Too rich, too lavish, too educated to be grouped in with us,” he continued, dripping with venom. “But, Florijan,” his voice shifted back into a soft explanation. “I know you don’t think that way. Izet might have. Hell, the rest of the world might, but you don’t have to. You have the ability to decide what opinions you have, and that’s what’s so beautiful about history. Yes, it’s scary and depressing and leaves you feeling desolate and morbid but it gives you perspective. Needed perspective. So, uh, don’t lose sleep over it, alright? Just... make the right choice.” Laszlo straightened in his chair, as if he were defending himself at one of the various sessions or meetings with his cabinet or with the throng of fellow leaders. “Make your own choice.”

Florijan had never realized the sound of his own voice. He’d always thought his accent sounded different than that of the other Slavs who came to visit Izet, their tones and pronunciation being more defined, more proper, less casual. Everything was conducted with an air of dignity, a twill of formality sprinkled on posture and manners. He hadn’t known it was a unique thing until it all came into perspective. He also hadn’t noticed before how when Laszlo spoke at the meetings, his Slavic accent seemed to melt away in favor of what sounded like a mock British thing. When Laszlo spoke at those meetings, the uncharacteristic severity of his adoptive accent was dour and exuding with bitterness and icy etiquette. The way Laszlo spoke now, though, and the way he spoke at the library, was comfortable, relaxed, his voice soothing and not characterized by the harsh intonations of a western disguise. His accent was beautiful, it was colorful and chaotic but also fun and fitting all at once. It was uniquely Laszlo. 

Florijan didn’t want him to hide the person he was beneath all those layers. He found himself first outstretching a hand, wordlessly, which Laszlo took, eyebrows furrowed. Then, with his emotion pouring out like an opened set of floodgates, he reached out both his arms and enveloped Laszlo in a hug. Florijan squeezed, careful to not hurt his friend, and rested his head in the corner of Laszlo’s neck, his eyes shut tight. Laszlo froze for a moment, stunned and caught like a red-handed criminal, and hugged back. Just slightly. His hands shook as he patted Florijan’s back and listened to the sound of his aggressive heartbeat. It was Florijan who let go first, folding like a house of cards and keeping his movements light and gentle. When Laszlo looked up, he realized Florijan’s eyes were welling up. “I don’t want you to hide from yourself just because the world said so!” Florijan whimpered, wiping his tears away with his sleeve.

Laszlo had never been so aware of the sound of his own heartbeat in his chest. It was so strong and filled his ears with that drumbeat of blood and life. He shut his eyes, choking back a tidal wave of emotion and hearing the pounding inside of his head. Like a swimmer coming up for air, he took in a long breath and turned back to a brimming Florijan, smiling like a politician. “Ah, thank you, dear. It means a lot to me that you say that. Thank you. Really, thank you.”

“Oh, Laszlo, you’re such a good man. You were so good today. You’re so clever and intelligent and wonderful, I don’t see why you have to hide behind— I don’t see why you should hide at all.” Florijan sniffled, making paws with his sweater and rocking back and forth in his place. “I look up to you.”

Laszlo felt that pit in his stomach again and his mouth grew dry. He sat there, a rubberneck to his own wreck, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. “Awh, shit, dear. I look up to you too. You’re an admirable fellow. I’m happy to be here with you. You’re doing amazing.”

Florijan swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, blinking away the last of his tears. He grabbed Laszlo’s hands again, giving them a tight squeeze. Laszlo gazed at Florijan’s olive green nail polish. “That’s— that’s my favorite color, some fun Mincef trivia.”

Holding up his hand to study his own nails and then gaze back at Laszlo, Florijan beamed. “Green is beautiful! It’s the color of life.”

Laszlo nodded, his mouth a faint smile. “Yeah, yeah. You feel better now?”

Florijan nodded his head. “Thank you for talking with me… dear.”

“Noooooo problem, dear!” Laszlo responded, aiming finger guns and shooting with two snaps of his fingers. “Always a pleasure to see you around. I hope we can see each other more often.” To be fair, Laszlo thought, relations  _ had  _ especially stalled with Izet in power. Maybe it was time to repair that.

“Mmph,” Florijan replied, his head bobbing up and down. He kissed Laszlo’s outstretched hand and got to his feet, placing one of his firm hands on Laszlo’s shoulder. “I’ll see you around.” His words were smiling almost as wide as he was.

“See ‘ya.” Laszlo gave a salute.

Florijan saluted back, giggling as he disappeared towards the dorms. 

Laszlo heard his heart pounding again.


End file.
